Free A Death in Valencia by Jason Webster

if Mayoress Emilia Delgado, or her ill-dressed sidekick Javier Flores, knew that he lived at the now collapsed block of flats. The three of them had a history from the Blanco case the previous year, when the murder of Spain’s leading matador in the Valencia bullring coincided with a Town Hall plan to outlaw los toros within the city limits. The bulls and bullfighters were still there, and Emilia and Flores were still in power, but that was largely in spite of Cámara’s successful conclusion of the investigation, not because of it. If Emilia and Flores had a list of their favourite policemen, Cámara wasn’t on it.
    â€˜There’ll be an official inquiry, the Valencian High Tribunal will get involved, it will drag on for years, and meanwhile memories will begin to fade, until finally there’ll be a decision absolving everyone except a couple of minor officials who’d already been blacklisted for some misdemeanour, and the whole thing will be forgotten.’
    Cámara stretched out his hands, as though trying to grab Torres by the neck.
    â€˜I can’t just give in like that.’
    â€˜It’s not about giving in. It’s about staying alive. You know what I’m saying is true. You’d just get yourself in a mess, with no justice for your neighbour or anyone in the end.’
    â€˜Susana,’ Cámara said. ‘Susana and Tomás.’
    â€˜You’d never get the case in the first place,’ Torres said. ‘You’re compromised by the whole thing–you lived there. Just forget it. Forget it.’
    â€˜ Si buscas la venganza, prepara dos tumbas–una de ellas será tuya .’
    Cámara nodded. If you seek revenge, prepare two graves–one of them will be yours.
    He let his head drop.
    â€˜Come on,’ Torres said. ‘Let’s go out. It’s nearly lunchtime. You need some food inside you, a glass of wine. It’ll do you good.’
    â€˜What have you been working on?’ Cámara asked as they headed out into the corridor.
    â€˜Roures,’ Torres said. ‘Got the breakdown of calls on his mobile.’
    â€˜And?’
    â€˜Mostly to his suppliers. A couple to the office of El Cabanyal, Sí . One to the department of Urbanismo at the Town Hall. Probably to complain about something to do with the development plan.’
    â€˜Anything else?’
    â€˜Haven’t had a chance to find Ramón the fisherman yet, but the tests from the break-in at the other bar came in. No link.’
    The doors at the end of the corridor flew open before they could reach them.
    â€˜I’ve just heard something utterly fucking stupid!’
    Commissioner Pardo’s tie was pulled to one side, and sweat-patch stains were visible under his arms–a side effect of the underwhelming air conditioning inside the Jefatura building.
    â€˜Some idiot just told me that Chief Inspector Cámara was here. That he’d reported for work. “Fuck off,” I said. “The bastard’s house just fell down. He’s not going to come in on a day like this. Hasn’t even got anywhere to fucking sleep.” “Oh, no,” my informant insisted. “He’s here all right.” So I thought I’d better come and have a look for myself. And you know what? It looks as though the cunt was right. ’Cause here you are standing right in fucking front of me.’
    â€˜Morning, Commissioner,’ Cámara said.
    â€˜Fuck off!’ Pardo shouted. ‘Now. That’s a fucking order. You can’t be here. Go where you have to go, sort your life out, get shagged, do whatever you have to do. But don’t come in here. You’re on compassionate fucking leave.’
    He pushed his way back through the swinging doors.
    â€˜You’ve got twenty-four hours.’
    Â 
    They’d opened up the street again to traffic, and a stream of cars was rolling past, pausing so the occupants could glance up